As I approached the drawingroom door, which was open, I heard Rebecca’s voice talking to him; and then the old man said, in a broken voice:
“Where’s the child? Bring her here. I will see the bairn.”
I was the “bairn” summoned to his presence. This broad north-country dialect, the language, I suppose, of his early childhood, always returned to him in moments when his feelings were excited. I entered the room, and he strode towards me.
“Ha! the lassie,” he cried, gently. There was a little tremor in his deep voice; a pause followed, and he added, vehemently, “By the God above us, I’ll never forsake you!”
He held me to his heart for some seconds without speaking.
“Gimma your hand. I love you for her sake,” he said, and took my hand firmly and kindly in his, and he looked earnestly in my face for awhile in silence. “You’re like her; but, oh! lassie, you’ll never be the same. There’ll never be another such as Mabel.”
Tears, which he did not dry or conceal, trickled down his rugged cheeks.
He had been talking with Rebecca Torkill, and had made her tell him everything she could think of about mamma.
“Sit ye down here, lass,” he said to me, having recovered his self-possession. “You are to come home wi’ me, to Gouden Friars, or wherever else you like best. You shall have music and flowers, and books and dresses, and you shall have your maid to wait on you, like other young ladies, and you shall bring Rebecca with you. I’ll do my best to be kind and helpful; and you’ll be a blessing to a very lonely old man; and as I love you now for Mabel’s sake, I’ll come to love you after for your own.”
I did not think his stern old face could look so gentle and sorrowful, and the voice, generally so loud and commanding, speak so tenderly. The light of that look was full of compassion and melancholy, and indicated a finer nature than I had given the uncouth old man credit for. He seemed pleased by what I said; he was doing, he felt, something for mamma in taking care of the child she had left so helpless.
Days were to pass before he could speak to me in a more businesslike way upon his plans for my future life, and those were days of agitation and affliction, from which, even in memory, I turn away.
I am going to pass over some little time. An interval of six weeks finds me in a lofty wainscoted room, with two stone-shafted windows, large and tall, in proportion, admitting scarcely light enough however, to make it cheerful. These windows are placed at the end of an oblong apartment, and the view they command is melancholy and imposing. I was looking through the sudden hollow of a mountain gorge, with a level of pasture between its craggy sides, upon a broad lake, nearly three hundred yards away, a barrier of mountains rising bold and purple from its distant margin. A file of gigantic trees stretches from about midway down to the edge of the lake, and partakes of the sombre character of the scene. On the steeps at either side, in groups or singly, stand some dwarf oak and birch-trees, scattered and wild, very picturesque, but I think enhancing the melancholy of the view.
For me this spot, repulsive as it would have been to most young people, had a charm; not, indeed, that of a “happy valley,” but the charm of seclusion, which to a wounded soul is above price. Those who have suffered a great reverse will understand my horror of meeting the people whom I had once known, my recoil from recognition, and how welcome are the shadows and silence of the cloister compared with the anguish of a comparative publicity.
Experience had early dissipated the illusions of youth, and taught me to listen to the whisperings of hope with cold suspicion. I had no trust in the future — my ghastly mischances had filled me with disgust and terror. My knowledge haunted me; I could not have learned it from the experience of another, though my instructor had come to me from the dead. I was here, then, under no constraint, not the slightest. It was of my own free choice that I came, and remained here. Sir Harry Rokestone would have taken me anywhere I pleased.
Other people spoke of him differently; I can speak only of my own experience. Nothing could be more considerate and less selfish than his treatment of me, nothing more tender and parental. Kind as he was, however, I always felt a sort of awe in his presence. It was not, indeed, quite the awe that is founded on respect — he was old — in most relations stern — and his uneducated moral nature, impetuous and fierce, seemed capable of tragic things. It was not a playful nature, with which the sympathies and spirits of a young person could at all coalesce.
Thormen Fell, at the north of the lake, that outtopped the rest, and shielded us from the wintry wind, rearing its solemn head in solitude, snowy, rocky, high in air, the first of the fells visible, the first to greet me, far off in the sunshine, with its dim welcome as I returned to Golden Friars. It was friendly, it was kindly, but stood aloof and high, and was always associated in my mind with danger, isolation, and mystery. And I think my liking for Sir Harry Rokestone partook of my affection for Thormen Fell.
So, as you have no doubt surmised, I was harboured in the old baronet’s feudal castle of Dorracleugh. A stern, wild, melancholy residence, but one that suited wonderfully my present mood.
He was at home; another old gentleman, whose odd society I liked very well, was also at that time an inmate of the house. I will tell you more about him in my next chapter.
CHAPTER LI.
A WARNING.
The old gentleman I speak of, I had seen once before — it was at Malory. He was that very Mr. Lemuel Blount whom I and Laura Grey had watched with so much interest as he crossed the courtyard before our windows, followed by a chaise.
As Sir Harry and I, at the end of our northward journey from London, arrived before the door of his ancient house of Dorracleugh, Mr. Blount appeared at the threshold in the light, and ran down, before the servant could reach it, to the door of our chaise. There was something kindly and pleasant in the voice of this old man, who was so earnest about our comforts. I afterwards found that he was both wise and simple, a sound adviser, and as merry often as a goodnatured boy. He contrasted, in this latter respect, very agreeably for me, with Sir Harry Rokestone, whom solitary life, and a habit of brooding over the irreparable, had made both gloomy and silent.
Mr. Blount was easily amused, and was something of an innocent gossip. He used to go down to the town of Golden Friars every day, and gather all the news, and bring home his budget, and entertain me with it, giving all the information I required with respect to the dramatis personæ. He liked boating as well as I did, and although the storms of the equinox prevailed, and the surrounding mountains, with their gorges, made the winds squally and uncertain, and sailing upon the lake in certain states of the weather dangerous, he and I used to venture out I daresay oftener than was strictly prudent. Sir Harry used to attack him for these mad adventures, and once or twice grew as tempestuous almost as the weather. Although I was afraid of Sir Harry, I could not help laughing at Mr. Blount’s frightened and penitent countenance, and his stolen glances at Sir Harry, so like what I fancied those of a fat schoolboy might be when called up for judgment before his master.
Sir Harry knew all the signs of the weather, and it ended by his putting us under condition never to go out without his leave, and old Mr. Blount’s pleadings and quarrelsome resentment under his prohibition were almost as laughable as his alarms.
In a little time neighbours began to call upon me, and I was obliged, of course, to return these visits; but neighbours do not abound in these wild regions, and my quiet, which I had grown to love, was wonderfully little disturbed.
One morning at breakfast, among the letters laid beside Sir Harry was one, on opening which his face darkened suddenly, and an angry light glowed in his deep-set eyes. He rapped his knuckles on the table, he stood up and muttered, sat down again in a little while, and once more looked into the letter. He read it through this time; and then turning to Lemuel Blount, who had been staring at him in silence, as it seemed to me knowing very well what the subject of the letter must be:
“Look at that,” said the Ba
ronet, whisking the letter across the table to Mr. Blount, “I don’t understand him — I never did.”
Mr. Blount took the letter to the window and read it thoughtfully.
“Come along,” said the Baronet, rising, and beckoning him with his finger, “I’ll give him an answer.”
Sir Harry, with these words, strode out of the room, followed by Mr. Blount; and I was left alone to my vain conjectures. It was a serene and sunny day; the air, as in late autumn it always is, though the sun has not lost its power, was a little sharp. Some hours later, I and my old comrade, Mr. Blount, had taken to the water. A boatman sat in the bow. I held the tiller, abandoned to me by my companion, in right of my admitted superiority in steering, an art which I had learned on the estuary at Cardyllion. Mr. Blount was not so talkative as usual. I said to him at last:
“Do you know, Mr. Blount, I once saw you, before I met you here.”
“Did you?” said he. “But I did not see you. Where was that?”
“At Malory, near Cardyllion, after the wreck of the Conway Castle, when Mr. Marston was there.”
“Yes, so he was,” said the old gentleman; “but I did not know that any of Mr. Ware’s family were at home at the time. You may have seen me, but I did not see you — or, if I did, you made no impression upon me.”
This was one of my good friend’s unconscious compliments which often made me smile.
“And what became of that Mr. Marston?” I asked. “He had a wonderful escape!”
“So he had — he went abroad.”
“And is he still abroad?”
“About six weeks ago he left England again; he was here only for a flying visit of two or three months. It would be wise, I think, if he never returned. I think he has definitely settled now, far away from this country, and I don’t think we are likely to see his face again. You’re not keeping her near enough to the wind.”
I was curious to learn more about this Mr. Marston, of whom Mr. Carmel and Laura Grey — each judging him, no doubt, from totally different facts, and from points of view so dissimilar — had expressed such singularly ill opinions.
“You know Mr. Marston pretty well, do you?” I asked.
“Yes, very well; I have been trying to do him a service,” answered Mr. Blount. “See, see, there — see — those can’t be wild ducks? Blessed are the peacemakers. I wish I could, and I think I may. Now, I think you may put her about, eh?”
I did as he advised.
“I have heard people speak ill of that Mr. Marston,” I said; “do you know any reason why he should not be liked?”
“Why, yes — that is by people who sit in judgment upon their neighbours — he has been an ill friend to himself. I know but one bad blot he has made, and that, I happen to be aware, hurt no one on earth but himself; but there is no use in talking about him, it vexes me.”
“Only one thing more — where is he now?”
“In America. Put this over your feet, please — the air is cold — allow me to arrange it. Ay, the Atlantic is wide enough — let him rest — out of sight, out of mind, for the present at least, and so best.”
Our talk now turned upon other subjects, and returned no more to Mr. Marston during our sail.
In this house, as in most other old country-houses, there is a room that is called the library. It had been assigned to Mr. Blount as his special apartment. He had made me free of it — either to sit there and read, whenever I should take a fancy to do so, or to take away any of the books to the drawingroom. My life was as quiet and humdrum as life could be; but never was mortal in the enjoyment of more absolute liberty. Except in the matter of drowning myself and Mr. Blount in the mere, I could do in all respects exactly as I pleased. Dear old Rebecca Torkill was established as a retainer of the house, to my great comfort — she talked me to sleep every night, and drank a cup of tea every afternoon in my room. The quietude and seclusion of my life recalled my early days, and the peaceful routine of Malory. Of course, a time might come when I should like all this changed a little — for the present, it was the only life I thought endurable.
About a week after my conversation with Mr. Blount during our sail, Sir Harry Rokestone was called away for a short time by business; and I had not been for many days in the enjoyment of my tête-à-tête with Mr. Blount, when there occurred an incident which troubled me extremely, and was followed by a state of vague suspense and alarm, such as I never expected to have known in that quiet region.
One morning as I sat at breakfast with Mr. Blount for my vis-à-vis, and no one by but the servant who had just handed us our letters, I found before me an envelope addressed with a singularity that struck me as a little ominous. The direction was traced, not in the ordinary handwriting, but in Roman characters, in imitation of printing; and the penmanship was thin and feeble, but quite accurate enough to show that it was not the work of a child.
I was already cudgelling my brains to discover whether I could remember among my friends any waggish person who might play me a trick of this kind; but I could recollect no one; especially at a time when my mourning would have made jesting of that kind so inopportune. Odder still, it bore the Malory postmark, and unaccountable as this was, its contents were still more so. They were penned in the same Roman character, and to the following effect:
“Miss Ware, — Within the next ten days, a person will probably visit Golden Friars, who intends you a mischief. So soon as you see, you will recognize your enemy. Yours, — A Friend.”
My first step would have been to consult Mr. Blount upon this letter; but I could tell him nothing of my apprehensions from Monsieur Droqville, in whom my fears at once recognised the “enemy” pointed at by the letter. It might possibly, indeed, be some one else, but by no means, I thought so probable as the other. Who was my “friend,” who subscribed this warning? If it was not Mr. Carmel, who else could he be? And yet, why should not Mr. Carmel write to me as frankly as he had spoken and written before? If it came from him, the warning could not point to Monsieur Droqville. There was more than enough to perplex and alarm one in this enigmatical note.
CHAPTER LII.
MINE ENEMY.
I was afraid to consult even Rebecca Torkill; she was a little given to talking, and my alarms might have become, in a day or two, the property of Sir Harry’s housekeeper. There is no use in telling you all the solutions which my fears invented for this riddle.
In my anxiety I wrote to the Rector’s wife at Cardyllion, telling her that I had got an anonymous note, bearing the Malory postmark, affecting so much mystery that I was totally unable to interpret it. I begged of her therefore to take every opportunity of making out, if possible, who was the author, and to tell me whether there was any acquaintance of mine at present there, who might have written such a note by way of a practical joke to mystify me; and I entreated of her to let me know her conjectures. Then I went into the little world of Cardyllion and inquired about all sorts of people, great and small, and finally I asked if Mr. Carmel had been lately there.
In addition to this, I wrote to the postmaster, describing the appearance of the letter I had got, and asked whether he could help me to a description of the person who had posted it? Every time a new theory struck me, I read my “friend’s” note over again.
At length I began to think that it was most probably the thoughtless production of some real but harmless friend, who intended herself paying me a visit here, on visiting the Golden Friars. A female visitor was very likely, as the note was framed so as to indicate nothing of the sex of the “enemy;” and two or three young lady friends, not very reasonable, had been attacking me in their letters for not answering more punctually.
My mind was perpetually working upon this problem. I was very uncomfortable, and at times frightened, and even agitated. I don’t, even now, wonder at the degree to which I suffered.
A note of a dream in one of my fragmentary diaries at that time will show you how nervous I was. It is set down in much greater detail than you or I can af
ford it here. I will just tell you its “heads,” as old sermons say. I thought I had arrived here, at Dorracleugh, after a long journey. Mr. Blount and a servant came in carrying one of my large black travelling boxes, and tugged it along the ground. The servant then went out, and Mr. Blount, who I fancied was very pale, looked at me fixedly, and placing his finger to his lip in token of silence, softly went out, also, and shut the door, leaving me rather awestruck. My box, I thought, on turning my eyes upon it again, from my gaze at Mr. Blount, seemed much longer, and its shape altered; but such transformations do not trouble us in our dreams, and I began fumbling with the key, which did not easily fit the lock. At length I opened it, and instead of my dresses I saw a long piece of rumpled linen, and perceived that the box was a coffin. With the persistent acquiescence in monstrosities by which dreams are characterized, I experienced the slightest possible bewilderment at this, and drew down the linen covering, and discovered the shrouded face of Mr. Marston. I was absolutely horrified, and more so when the dead man sat up, with his eyes open, in the coffin, and looked at me with an expression so atrocious that I awoke with a scream, and a heart bounding with terror, and lay awake for more than an hour. This dream was the vague embodiment of one of my conjectures, and pointed at one of the persons whom, against all probability, I had canvassed as the “enemy” of my warning.
Solitude and a secret fear go a long way towards making us superstitious. I became more and more nervous as the suspense extended from day to day. I was afraid to go into Golden Friars, lest I should meet my enemy. I made an excuse, and stayed at home from church on Sunday for the same reason. I was afraid even of passing a boat upon the lake. I don’t know whether Mr. Blount observed my increased depression; we played our hit of backgammon, nevertheless, as usual, in the evening, and took, when the weather was not boisterous, our little sail on the lake.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 646
